From inside the flap

Book Three in the Chronicles of Tiralainn - Volume Five

The adventure concludes in this, the last installment in the BOOK OF DRAGONS saga. The long journey is almost over for Rhyden Fabhcun and the Oirat. They've made it to the ancient, underground city of Heese, but so have their mortal enemies, the Khahl. The ruthless spirit-queen Mongoljin has grown more powerful than even the Oirat's greatest ally, Trejaeran Muirel, and in the end, it will be up to Rhyden to face her in a desperate final stand. And if Rhyden fails, he'll not only lose everyone and everything that has grown dear to him-but also face banishment in a nightmarish realm of eternal darkness.

Meanwhile, Aedhir Fainne finds himself on the eve of battle, joining the ranks of the Enghan army against the indomitable might of the Torachan empire. Will a final bargain with their enemies insure the safe return of the young Enghan heir, and Aedhir's own children, or will Aedhir risk everything-including war-to save those he loves?

And in the imperial stronghold of Kharhorin, rumor of political upheaval shakes the city to its very foundation and imperial consul Aulus Tertius spares no expense-or brutal effort-to insure that his holdings remain in his sadistic possession-especially Aedhir's daughter, Aelwen.

Friends will be lost, innocence shattered, blood shed and worlds forever changed in a race against time to see who will reach the dragons' lair first-and who will survive long enough to lay claim to the dragons.

Book of Dragons: Volume Five (Excerpt)

Chapter One

The Oirat reached the entrance of the underground city of Heese by late afternoon two days later. Here, the Ujugar cliffs were not as sheer; they draped down from the imposing heights of Ondur Dobu like sprawled and groping fingers of stone. As it approached its confluence with the Dalda, the swift current of the Okin River yielded to shallow, burbling channels spread among frost-crusted islands of sparse witch-grass and graveled ground. As the waning, golden glow of the sun seeped among the sloping mountainsides, they could see the entry ahead of them, and the entire party drew to an awestruck halt.

"Tengeriin boshig," Toghrul whispered, drawing the blade of his hand to his brow to shield his marveling gaze from the glare.

"There it is, oyotona. Do you see?" Aigiarn said to Temu, her voice soft and breathless with wonder. "It is Heese, just like Rhyden promised."

Rhyden might have promised them Heese, and he might have had memories of the place seared into his mind, but even these had not prepared him for the actual sight of the Abhacan city. He had been to Iarnrod, the enormous royal city of Tirurnua, enough times to fairly well find his way along its streets blindfolded, but he had never seen anything like this. Iarnrod was built to be a fortress city-state -- like all Abhacan cities constructed after the fourth or fifth dynasty. The influx of men and their tenacious efforts to claim lands from the Abhacan had forced the diminutive race to retreat beneath their mountains, to use their cities as fortified sanctuaries against the continuous threat of invasion.

Such fortifications had come to Heese, but the city had been built long before this, during a renaissance period in Abhacan architecture Rhyden had never even heard about. To enter Iarnrod, visitors had to pass through long, treacherous ravines carved among mountain peaks, and then through massive, nigh-impenetrable iron doors. Rhyden knew from the gazriin ezen’s memories that beyond the threshold they now rode toward, a similar iron barrier had been constructed. However, Heese had once been a nexus for culture and activity in Tirgeimhreadh; it had welcomed visitors from all races with opened arms. Rather than the cold and uninviting entrance of Iarnrod, Heese had been graced with a magnificent threshold, a place that reminded guests of the might of the people who had once called the city home, and yet drew them inside, likely as enthralled as the Oirat now stood.

Six broad stairs, hewn from the granite of the cliff base led up to a portico framed by a colonnade of six towering columns, each at least twenty feet high. The roof of the portico sloped upward along the mountainside; an entablature carved out of the cliff itself. A huge archway of stone more than thirty feet across crowned the top, flanked by two massive pillars hewn in relief. The entire magnificent structure was adorned with relief sculptures and inscriptions, intricate and elaborate renditions of Abhacan runes and mythological characters, kings and armies, triumphant battles and the splendor the Abhacans had enjoyed in their daily lives.

A solitary doorway, fifteen feet tall, stood in the center of the portico’s far wall. There was nothing but darkness beyond; the door crossed into a tunnel that led toward the belly of the mountain.

"Mathair Maith," Rhyden breathed. Good Mother. "It is incredible!"

Towering above the portico, perched against the slopes of the Ujugar was a dragon, an enormous, hulking sculpture chiseled out of the mountainside. It stood twice again as tall as the threshold, with its broad wings draped back against the cliffs, its immense, crested head turned eastward, away from the glow of the waning sun. This colossal sentry had been meticulously, magnificently hewn from the granite, and nearly seemed lifelike in its stunning grace and detail. As the fading light of the sun spilled upon the dragon’s form, it seemed aglow, bathed in gold, and Temu gasped softly.

"It is Ag’iamon," he whispered, looking at Yeb, his eyes bright and wide with excitement. "Look, Yeb -- it is Ag’iamon!"

"It would seem we are in the right place, then," Yeb said, his own eyes round with wonder as he looked at the dragon.

While the dragon was likely carved at a much later date -- probably millennia -- after the threshold itself, time and the elements had taken their tolls upon both of the granite structures. As the Oirat reined their bergelmirs toward the structure, they could see tumbled piles of debris littering the ground and riverbanks where the cliff slopes had yielded and crumbled. They had found evidence of other such landslides all along their passage through the Qotoyor Berke ravine. Four days earlier, they had discovered skeletal remains among the debris of one such old avalanche. They had found signs all through the route of the party of Oirat Yesugei had dispatched with Inalchuk years earlier: old, abandoned campsites, with charred marks in the graveled riverbank still apparent enough to mark where fires had been built, small tools, needles or food packets fallen and forgotten from Oirat bogcus. Of this party, only Inalchuk had survived to return to the Nuqut and with the discovery of the sun-bleached skulls and battered bones, it seemed they had learned the fates of those who had traveled with him.

At Heese, the broad foundation of the stairs had cracked in places, dark tendrils riving the stone. The bases of the columns, and the tapered edges of the dragon’s extremities along its wingtips, crest and snout were all were visibly worn and eroded. Many of the relief panels framing the walls were indecipherable from millennia of wind, rain and snow. Water had seeped into miniscule cracks in the stone, and countless winters had seen it turn to ice, crumbling the granite. Despite this abuse, the entrance remained glorious and the granite glowed as if infused with gold as the last rays of sun fell upon it.

"The baga’han built all of this?" Temu asked.

"A long, long time ago they did, yes, Temu," Yeb said, nodding.

"I do not understand," Temu said, puzzled. "Rhyden said they are little, short like me. Why would they build something so big if they were so small?"

Yeb smiled at him. "Small does not necessarily mean weak, Temu," he said. "Perhaps the baga’han meant only to remind others of this."

Juchin made a harrumphing noise in his throat as he frowned, shifting his weight in his saddle, aggravated by their delay. He had dispatched four Kelet riders behind them shortly after they had found Jobin Dunster along the banks of the Okin. The sentries had rejoined them that morning to report more than two hundred Khahl Minghan warriors rode less than five hours behind them. Despite these superior numbers, the Khahl seemed to be making no great effort to quicken their pace, or close the distance with the Oirat any further.

"They want to follow us all of the way to the lair," Aigiarn had said, her brows drawn angrily. She had spat against the ground. "They might have burned marks into Targutai’s breast to fool their people, but they know they cannot fool the Tengri gods -- or the dragons. They need Temu to open the lair."

Every moment the Oirat wasted lingering idle and awestruck was another that could be used to elude the encroaching Khahl, and Juchin knew it. He loped his bergelmir ahead of the group, drawing it to a skittering halt at the bottom of the staircase. He swung his leg around the weasel’s saddle and dropped to the ground, tromping up the stairs.

"We are not the first to arrive," he said grimly, nodding toward the colonnade. There were small, bundled forms lying among the debris and crumbled stone on the risers. Juchin genuflected beside one and reached down, lifting the crusted, dry-rotted corner of a wool blanket in his hand. He looked at Aigiarn. "More I’uitan children," he said. He glanced around at the stairs and terrace, rising to his feet. "At least twenty of them here, just like Rhyden said the map described."

His feet cross over a sacred threshold, Aigiarn remembered Rhyden reciting to her. "Secret door into Beneath," she whispered aloud, stricken. "Where the bodies of children keep watch and seven stars bear mute witness to His passage."

Juchin looked up at her, his hand planted on the pommel of his scimitar. "The ground here in unstable," he said. "Golomto has stirred in her sleep, and mountains have tumbled." He glanced at Rhyden. "Come with me. You and I will go together. Take me to this gate inside. We will see if it is safe to pass. Mukhali, you as well, and you, Alchi -- both of you with me."

Two of the Uru’ut Kelet swung themselves down from their saddles, the heavy soles of their gutal stomping loudly against the ground. Aigiarn hooked her hand against the pommel ridge of her saddle and hopped from her bergelmir as well. "I am going with you."

Juchin raised his brow at her. "My Khanum," he said. "It is not -- "

" -- open to debate, Juchin," Aigiarn finished for him, marching up the stairs. "I am going with you. Jelmei, light some torches. You are with me. Toghrul, keep with Temu until we get back."